


Knee Socks

by DiamondDarling



Series: Royale Instinct OneShots [2]
Category: Basic Instinct (Movies), James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Bad Weather, Inspired by song, M/M, Paranoia, Stalking, adam is drunk, mentions of hetero sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondDarling/pseuds/DiamondDarling
Summary: -Heavily inspired by the song "Knee Socks" by The Arctic Monkeys-Ever since that damn weekend, Adam has been watched, followed, he has been running from him, hiding.But when he finds a certain pair of socks and a certain someone´s shirt, he decides he has had enough and takes matters into his own hand.Why wait to be found when he can find him first?
Relationships: Le Chiffre/Adam Towers
Series: Royale Instinct OneShots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709818
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Knee Socks

**Author's Note:**

> I heavily recommend listening to the song before or after, maybe even while reading this.  
> Though, of course, you don`t have to.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyO-Sveg6a8
> 
> I apologize for any typos!

……...  
When the winter's in full swing and your dreams just aren't coming true, Ain't it funny what you'll do?  
When the zeros line up on the 24 hour clock  
When you know who's calling even though the number is blocked  
When you waltz around your house wearing my sky-blue lacoste and your knee socks  
……...

Christ, he had fucked her.  
He'd brought her home, knowing of the situation, he'd brought her into his apartment.  
He'd made out with her in the hallway already, one hand fumbling inside her pants, the other fumbling with his keys.  
He'd further made out with her inside his apartment, he'd thrown her onto the couch, he'd served her wine and they'd gotten even more drunk, he'd stuck his tounge down her throat and, god, he'd stuck it so many other places-

He felt sick, disgusted, it had felt wrong but righteous.

Who was he to tell him he was his, anybodies property?  
Who was he to tell him he was under his ownership, he was his, he was his, he was his.

He felt so dirty, even after showering twice.  
He had thought fucking her, fucking a woman, fucking anybody else would get his mind off of him, would get his thoughts in order, would make him forget that night, no, that weekend.  
He thought it would make him forget the heat of their two moving bodies wrapped around each other, in perfect synch, that scent of sweat, blood and salty tears, oh how he craved it and how he hated it, oh how hard he had tried to keep it off his mind, how he had hoped to recreate it when he had burried himself inside of her.

He had been drunk and high on the weed-fumes that had filled the pub, she had been high on whatever the fuck she had gotten high on, she'd tasted like cough drops and Tequila and for a second, just a second, he had thought he could deal with that taste, that it could replace that taste of cold mint and bronchodilators and champagne, that it could be his new drug but fuck, now that his entire mouth tasted like her even after brushing his teeth he only found himself craving it again.

She had left- No, he had kicked her out, he'd called a cabbie to pick her up and drive her home.  
She had also forgotten half of her clothing.  
He had just tossed some pink panties into the trash when his phone rang.  
He took a deep breath and counted the rings.

One.

Two.

Three.

He glanced at the display on his phone.  
"Blocked ID"

Four.

Five.

He picked it up, a shiver catching him, a chill running down his spine, he felt his mouth dry and his shoulders tense up.

Six.

click 

The phone started beeping.  
He let out a big breath he didn't know he had been holding, yet his body stayed as tense as before.  
Before he had been pacing around his apartment, now he was still, frozen in time, though time wasn't frozen.  
He could hear the clock in the corner above the shelve tick.  
And tick.  
And tick.

His eyes wandered over to it, watching it slowly turn to 'Tuesday, 00:00'.  
Shit, it was that early?  
He was way too drunk for the night to be this young.  
Stumbling over his own feet, he picked up the sock she had left, slowly running his fingers over the smooth but torn fabric.  
He let out a small snort when he realised he had once bought kneesocks like that, he had worn them for him that weekend. 

In his drunken and high mind, it now made perfect sense to not go to sleep after staggering into his bedroom, but to open his closet and rummage through it, looking for said pair of black, silken socks.  
He finally found them, ontop of the highest shelf.  
Balancing on one foot on the chair he had pulled close, fuck, he really was too small for this damn apartment, he tried to reach them, tried to grasp it and pull it closer to himself, but-

All he managed to do was to knock down the entire upper department, clothes, bags, his suitcase and shoes spilling onto him and burrying him underneath in a giant pile of fabric.

Fuck.

Shit.

Well, at least he had the socks.  
He stared at them in bewilderment.  
…Why had he never worn them again? Why had he ever bought them in the first place?  
Why had he thought investing in anything, hoping it would last while knowing it wouldn't, would be a good idea?

Sure, they were soft, sexy, whatever the fuck he had heard him whisper into his ears while he fucked into him, stretching his insides so wide and just right.  
A shiver ran through him and he had to admit, sitting there in only his underwear was probably not the best idea if he didn't want to get sick.

So, why not put these babies on?  
Shit, they were soft. They felt warm, fit perfectly, they smoothly hugged his pretty calfs just fine.  
He traces the rim of those socks, imitating that touch he craved so badly, his touch.

His eyes scanned the mess and landed on his suitcase that had opened upon impact with the floor.  
He hadn't even cared to empty it when he had gotten home that weekend, hadn't cared enough to wash the clothes, hadn't cared to even touch them.  
His slightly blurry gaze fixated on a soft, crinkled piece of fabric.

Sky blue, way too big for him.

His phone rang again.

Again, "Blocked ID".  
Again, he watched it ring.  
When would he ever grow tired?  
Would he ever?  
Or would he just keep on watching him, surrounding his presence?  
Wherever he went, he felt his eyes.  
Wherever he looked, he saw him.  
Always watching.  
Always.  
The ringing stopped again.

Was it just imagination? Was he just paranoid enough to believe the lies, to believe every door he walked past had eyes and ears, to believe he was never alone? Was he stupid enough to feel threatened by the very thought of this man existing?

He sighed, reaching out for the piece of fabric.  
The answer was no.  
It had been a no ever since their eyes had first met for the second time from across the room, ever since he had been pulled into that elevator, later that room, ever since he had gotten fucked hard into that luxury mattress so good he cried.

He ran his hands over the softness of the shirt.  
He'd seen him wear it the morning after, it had looked so out of character.  
The sky blue had matched his left eye perfectly, so perfectly he had torn it right off his torso, begging him to fuck him again, just as good as last night.

His fingers played with the little note in the inner side of the shirt's collar that proudly stated the brand.

LACOSTE.

Lost in thoughts and memories, he brought it up to his face, close, close enough to smell it, to smell that scent of expensive cologne that still lingered, even after all this time.  
Tears were burning in the back of his eyes and before he knew it, he had put the shirt on.

It was way too big for him, or he was way too small for it.  
Either way, it could never hug his frame as gloriously.  
It slightly went over his thighs, just enough to cover his silken Boxershorts.

Again, the phone rang.

Of course it did.  
He probably enjoyed the show he was putting on for him, from wherever he sat now.  
There was no point in hiding any of this, there was no point in secretly trying the shirt on in his bathroom, he knew those eyes were everywhere, every little corner of his small apartment was being watched and he had given up on hiding a long time ago.  
He had not been able to shake the eyes and ears off when he had moved three times in the last six months, not been able to escape when he had stayed at a friend's couch for a few weeks, not even when he had locked himself inside his room as soon as he had moved in.

His eyes were everywhere and he would always be five steps ahead of him.

By now he was pacing, head in hands, quickly strutting from one end of the apartment to the other and back, heart racing too fast for it to be healthy.

No escape, he thought.  
There's no escape.

He would never be able to go one single step without being followed, would never be able to have sex with someone without it being noted, would never be able to form feelings or emotions for anyone else as long as he felt this shadow looming over him, tracing his silhouette and holding him with dark, cold hands.

For the fourth time, his telephone rang, the alarm now shrill and distorted, mixing and intertwining with his thoughts and emotions.

ring  
No escape.

ring  
No escape.

ring  
No escape.

ring  
So why not go back?

click  
He stopped. 

His hands slowly let go of his hair and sunk back down to his sides. Thoughts were racing, too fast to mean anything, too many at once.  
His eyes stared at the wall, not seeing anything, his lungs held his breath and his heartbeat slowed.  
Minutes passed and slowly but surely, the thoughts bundled together, the wild mess began to clear up, leaving one simple sentence, five words that he had never considered to form into this question.

Why not find him first?

Yes.

He didn't bother grabbing his coat, he snatched his wallet in such a hurry he didn't notice his keys falling onto the floor with a light jingle, he didn't even bother putting on shoes, or pants, or anything other than the Lacoste shirt and those damn knee socks.  
No, he shut the door behind him, leaving even his cellphone behind, his mind was set on a goal and he was going to reach it.

Now or never.

He was three steps out the door when the cold hit him straight in the face and stomach, but the alcohol had made him almost too numb to care.  
The people on the streets were staring, judging him as he walked by and occasionally flipped them off.  
None of their damn business why he was drunk and barely dressed in the middle of January.

After about half an hour his resistance to the piercing cold and wind and the icy wetness drenching his feet did wear off, which was both a big surprise and displeasure to him.  
Standing by the road, he held out his arm, chuckling at the thought of how stretching his leg out might even be more effective.

The taxi driver was not impressed by who she picked up, or moreso how he was dressed.  
Had he been sober he would've been aware he must've looked like a cheap stripper, but had he been sober he might not have even left his apartment looking like this.  
Had he been sober, maybe he wouldn't have put these socks on. Or that shirt, for that matter.  
He wouldn't even have gone.

Blaming his drunken mind, his slurring thoughts, that option seemed way more rational to him than blaming the dull ache of loneliness and sadness in his stomach that had been there for nearly nine months.

The ride was long, he fell asleep halfway, dozing off and sinking into those fumes of cologne, that horribly good scent he had smelled back then, only to be woken up by the cab driver yelling at him that they were there and she wanted her damn money.  
They had reached the airport.  
He gave her the biggest bill he had, mumbling she could keep the change and thought to himself she should go fuck herself for waking him this rudely.

By now his legs felt like icicles, numb and dull, he could barely walk but, slowly and stumbling, made his way to the airport entrance.  
A flight to wherever he might be can't be that expensive, huh?  
Especially when he could be everywhere.

Oh how wrong he was about that, and how wrong he was about them letting him inside any plane in his condition and clothes.  
He grew more and more aware of the fact that he looked like a runaway, someone who was trying to escape the country, and by that point he wasn't even upset for getting security called on him after he drunkenly yelled at the employees about what idiots they were for not knowing where he was supposed to go or what he was even doing there, and getting dragged outside.

Shit.

The short warm break inside the airport had made him even more aware of how cold it was, no, how fucking freezing.

What was even worse was that he had lost his chance.  
If he went back home, sobered up, he wouldn't try to go back again.  
He was not going to let his sober self ruin this.

Giving himself a mental middle finger, he weighed his chances.  
Go home? Not find him, be found, play his game.  
No.  
What else was left then? He couldn't afford any plane this shortly before takeoff, he couldn't go back inside without being risked of getting kicked out.

This all had gone so fast, the idea had seemed like a saving light, the ride had made him feel secure, closer to what he craved so badly, closer to him.  
Now he was there. Not even halfway, not enough money to go forth or back.  
He was stuck and he deserved it. He should've known better than to try to mess with his plans.

He was so tired.  
Tired of running, tired of fleeing his grip, his sight, tired of trying to escape and immediately failing, trying to get away but leaving his heart at the starting point.

The Lacoste was partially frozen to his body, so were the socks. Damn, who would've thought winter would be cold?  
He sighed.  
There was one last spot.  
One spot he could find him, possibly meet him, smell that scent again.  
If he wasn't there, that was it.

Stumbling around, moving to get his blood flowing again, he started looking for the bench a bit further away from the entrance. He remembered the location, but it was hard to drunkenly find in the dark.

After another ten minutes or so, he had found it.  
The one they had first met eyes, the one spot he had first been shocked by those icy greys and stinging browns.  
Where he had fallen for that perfect frame, that beautiful face.  
God, he was so fucked, wasn't he?

That bench where he had seen him.  
That bench.  
The bench that was now empty.

He stood next to it, staring at the snow covered wood and metal.  
That was the last spot, his last hope, right in front of him.

The realisation came crashing down, even colder that the goddamn weather.

He had lost.  
He had tried to play, the first attempt he had made he had lost. He shouldn't have tried. Shouldn't have brought this sad attempt to strike back, this drunkenly decision to intercept those plans, to be victorious.  
To prove he was worth the trouble of being followed.

Of course it was empty, why should he be here? Why had he thought there might be a slight chance he was even in the country? On the continent even?  
He hadn't even known where to go to find him, why had he believed anything was gonna work out?

Why had he tried, why had he not just stayed at home and maybe fucked another girl from a different club?

His hands were blue, so were his lips, his nose seemed to be frozen closed with his own snot, and by now, tears.

Nowhere to go, nobody to go to, no way to contact anyone.  
No way to contact him.

God, he was so tired of everything.

His legs gave out, rightfully so, they deserved to get to fuck him over after all this.  
He fell face first into the snow, too exhausted to stop his fall with his hands.  
And that's how he layed, the alcohol slowly wearing off, the cold creeping into every tiny corner of his body.  
Maybe someone was going to see him, send help, maybe they would find him dead in the morning, he couldn't bring himself to care, not when the cold felt so welcoming, so much like those hands.

Not when it felt like he was getting picked up, held close. Who knew freezing to death was this pleasant, who knew it would feel just like his hands, playing with the scruff of his knee socks, with the frozen locks of his hair, pressing soft, almost warm kisses to his forehead and cheeks?

Who knew it would feel so much like him?

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.  
Not on the bench, in a hotel room, a gigantic one at that. The bed was warm, and the sky blue Lacoste shirt was clean, ironed and neatly folded next to the bed he was in. He was nearly naked, except for that pair of knee socks. 

This wasn't death.  
This was worse, wasn't it?  
This was him.

The door opened, and he knew. He knew who it was, he was here, he had been found. He had found him after all.

"Hello, Adam."

A small sentence, so much weight, so much pain but so much hope.  
One damn sentence.

Silence. Eyes meeting, green clashing with grey and brown, two smiles spreading on their faces, two set of teeth showing, threatening but oh, so happy.

"Hello Jean."

………  
Oh, the zeros lined up  
But the number's blocked  
When you come undone  
……...


End file.
